


The Heart is Hard to Translate (It Has a Language of its Own)

by kataurah



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, The 100 (TV), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, M/M, Multifandom Mess, Pining, Romance, Smut, a series of unconnected one shots, i have an obsession with expressive words, never fear, so far - Freeform, there is a theme, there will be more fandoms and pairings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-11-03 20:55:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20597375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kataurah/pseuds/kataurah
Summary: "Words were never so useful so I was screaming out in a language that I never knew existed before."We are limited to the meagre words we can scrounge together in order to pour out our hearts and souls when they can no longer be contained. Sometimes it seems as though those words - "I love you" commonplace, but no less powerful- might still never be enough to express multitudes.There are words where English fails. Words of beauty and love and passion and longing. We just have to find them; let them inspire.





	1. Daryl & Carol - Saudade

**Author's Note:**

> So long story short, I collect words. Words which have interesting, beautiful meanings and which have no English equivalent. I am in love with words, particularly the poetic expression in so many of the words I've collected. I started, without really realising, writing down short one-shots, not necessarily sticking to one fandom, but as the inspiration took me, and also depending on which words had the best vibes for which characters. I hope this all makes sense, and I love this idea; I'd like to keep doing them as one-shots and take the pressure off somewhat, especially if you guys like them. And if anyone has a specific word/pairing request, just come say hi in my inbox and I'd be delightful to give it a try.
> 
> O, phew, I'm done (if y'all are still with me, thank you for all of your support over the years. I hope I'm not being too much of a disappointment now on the writing front. Lotsa love x)

_Saudade (Portuguese) - a deep emotional state of nostalgic or profound melancholic longing for an absent something or someone that one loves; bittersweet to hold on to the memories that one would still never want to part with._

* * *

Living in solitude - _surviving_ \- is nothing new to Daryl. He never could rely on his brother even before the Turn, what with the regular stints in juvie and later the army (until, of course, Merle fucked that up for himself too.) Daryl got himself out from under their father’s shadow and swore he’d never look to nothing and nobody to get along in life. He could get along just fine on his own, and it wasn’t as if people were eager to associate with “someone like him” in the first place. The Dixon name was redneck trash, through and through, so he kept to himself, and when Merle returned to Georgia and started dealing again, Daryl just tried as hard as possible to stay the hell out of the way.

He never knew what it was to miss something, to _yearn_ for anything, because what was there to miss? (Besides his mama, but that was pointless since she was so long gone Daryl couldn’t even remember what she’d looked like.) He’d never had anything in his shitty, worthless life that he gave enough of a damn about to hang on to, to fight for, let alone to miss it once it was gone. And it was better that way, because sooner or later he _would_ lose it, because Dixons didn’t get to keep - or be - anything of worth.

So when Daryl retreats into the safety of the woods, the heat of Rick’s funeral pyre still prickling on his skin, blinding him with tears he furiously tries to blink away, he knows he’ll survive, only this time he has lost more than he could ever have imagined back before the Turn. And he will ache and yearn for it so much that some days it will hurt to breathe.

If he’s being honest with himself (and, really, why wouldn’t he be when it’s just him, living alone out in the wilderness with only the dead for company) he was missing something long before he’d made the decision to leave. Something the others - his _family_\- used to share. They’d talk about the prison like it had been a golden age, and, despite everything they’ve been through since then, everything they’ve achieved and built, Daryl still can’t help but think that it was. Their best days gone by.

Carol had told him once that she’d been who she was always meant to be, at the prison; he thinks she must have known that he felt the same way. As it was so often between the two of them, one would speak the thoughts that they instinctively knew were echoed by the other. At least, that was how it used to be…

_Carol_.

It had taken every ounce of self control to simply sit next to her and be her confidant. Shit, he was _happy_ to be that: to be the person she could be honest with, to still be herself. But they sat together in the peace and quiet of the night, talking about her and the King and fucking _proposals -_

His heart still twists at the thought, just as it had then. But he’d tamped down hard on the wounded, bereft animal that was trying to howl and claw its way out from inside his chest. He’d locked it away, same as he’s been doing since that first winter when he’d let himself care and protect and teach and tease and -

_Love_.

Daryl’s not an idiot; he accepted a long time ago that he was in love with Carol. (Or as close to being in love as he can imagine; it’s not as if he has a reference point for this shit, and he sure as hell wouldn’t _ask_ anyone for advice.) He accepted it and knew that he would be happy with whatever parts of herself he was lucky enough for her to share with him. Whatever she needed him to be - her friend, her protector, her family - Daryl would be. As long as she was happy.

And with Ezekiel she’d made herself clear about the kind of man she wanted. It doesn’t matter that Daryl still considers him a bit of a pretentious prick, he knows the man has, and will, do right by Carol. The King and Henry, they’re her new family; the Kingdom her people. Carol started over, just as he said they would, just not with Daryl.

It hurt to have her sit so close, her body warm and familiar and trusting against his side. To have her rest her head upon his shoulder and lay down her burdens for a moment in comfortable silence. How was it that he could still miss her and long for her when she was so close that he could feel her breathing? So close that, as he matched his breath to hers, he could smell her hair as the soft curls brushed his cheek. The smell of comfort and of home and of _Carol_.

Daryl told himself then to be satisfied with the gentle touch of her fingers resting, idly stroking the bare skin of his forearm, and he truly was. If he could selfishly hold on to just a little piece of her, if they could still have _this_…

But then Rick -

His friend, his _brother_, was just gone and there was a gaping, empty chasm left in the world. Guilt and grief threatened to swallow him whole and Daryl ran. He retreated to the only place that would always make sense; he lost himself in the wilderness and stayed there, thinking that time and distance would eventually numb the pain.

It doesn’t.

Being alone in the woods is different now. Daryl never knew loneliness before, because he’d never been surrounded by people who loved him, and who he loved in return. (Had never been surrounded and not wanted to escape.) People that he would have died for. People that he’s failed. So many faces, so many voices that haunt him, that he both wishes and fears he’ll forget.

Daryl wanders and explores with no particular aim in mind other than to distract himself from that animal still curled, living, _crying_ in his chest. Pathetic. If he’d come across it out in the wild he’d have put it out of its misery. He finds a ride and ventures north west and - going by the road signs - makes it all the way to Nebraska to find a whole lot of nothing other than fucking snow. Days, weeks and months blur into years, but no matter where he roams, in the back of his mind he’s ever aware of where Carol is, in which direction and how far, like his North Star calling him home. 


	2. Marcus & Abby - Cafune

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're on Sanctum and nobody's dying. That the plot. Enjoy ;)

_Cafuné_ _ (Portuguese) - The act of caressing or tenderly running fingers through a loved one's hair._

* * *

"Every time someone tells me to cut my hair, it makes me want to grow it down to my ass," Marcus grumbles into her own hair one evening, about a month into his recovery. 

Abby snorts and rolls over in their little pallet bed (it's not such a trial for them to have so little space, after sharing single mattresses in the bunker for so long. They _could_ sleep separately, but, well, after the month they spent apart following praimfaya, they've always hated the very thought of that.) She regards him with fond amusement and brings a hand up between them to stroke back the long, untied waves falling into his face. 

"You always did have a contrary streak," She teases, and marvels at the simple peace and comfort she feels in this moment. That they have the time to cherish this moment, here in each other's arms, and she has the opportunity to be this light with him again... well, it's a gift she doesn't intend on taking for granted. 

"No more than you," He counters immediately, eyes falling shut as she continues to run her fingers through his hair in a soothing, repetitive motion.

"Point proven." 

He's the one to laugh this time, and the feeling of it reverberating through his body, pressed close as they are, fitting together as naturally as breathing, is almost enough to make her cry with joy. Though she has long since memorised them, Abby studies the crinkles in the corners of Marcus' eyes, the quirk of his lips that still seems quiet and shy and makes her heart break a little for all the years he spent not smiling. She could probably count the number of times she has seen him smile freely, openly and unguarded, for they are so few and she treasures the memory of each one.

Abby hums in consideration, "I guess we brought that out in each other." 

He opens his eyes and they're twinkling with amusement, "You _guess?_" 

Abby rolls her eyes, conceding the point, then kisses that smirk that used to infuriate her beyond reason. She remembers she used to fantasise, occasionally, about kissing him just to shut him up; punishingly, hard enough to bruise. Now she just nips playfully at his bottom lip before slipping her tongue into his mouth and her hands deeper into his thick, overgrown hair. She starts to gently nudge him onto his back, but Marcus growls a little in the back of his throat then suddenly she's staring up at him, pinned to the mattress, her legs having fallen open of their own accord to comfortably cradle his hips. 

"Seems we still do," She murmurs, breathlessly, and, dammit, since he brought up his hair she can't seem to stop touching it. Not that that's anything new, of course. Abby has always had something of a fascination (okay, obsession) with his hair that goes back far before she fell in love with him; back to before she hated him, even. To the point that she quietly resented him for trying to keep it neat and tidy - _controlled_ \- once he joined the guard. Left to its own devices, it falls in soft, tousled waves that - in her opinion - are always begging to be touched. 

"Maybe just a trim," She suggests, but does not say how she specifically misses the way one unruly curl used to fall over his forehead; how it had looked when he'd started to let it grow out down on Earth, coaxed into dishevelled curls by the elements, and she'd let herself fall in love with him. "It does have its merits like this." 

She tightens her grip where her fingers are currently buried at the back of his head, and watches with satisfaction as Marcus' eyes darken, lips parting in a quiet gasp. If that isn't enough of a reminder that Marcus enjoys her preoccupation with his hair as much as she does, the hardness she can feel growing right where her own arousal has begun to thrum in anticipation leaves no trace of doubt. 

Abby uses her hold to pull him down into another kiss, deeper and more urgent this time, and Marcus meets her fervour in kind, his mouth hot and almost desperate against her own. His hips have started rocking instinctively against hers, and the tiny voice of reason that still remains in Abby's head tells her that he should still be taking it easy, not overexerting himself. But then he skims a hand down her side, brushes a thumb over a peaked nipple through the tank top she's wearing, and, oh god, it's been so long since they had the time and privacy to do this properly. To savour and _watch_ as they slowly, skilfully, take each other apart. 

Their shared tent, down here planetside, doubles as the medical tent by day; ever since Abby had made it clear that she wouldn't be leaving Marcus' side, whether he was unconscious or - later - awake, the job had been brought to her. Which means, on the plus side, they have plenty of space, kept heated and comfortable, but are located at the centre of camp where they can be heard far too easily. 

Jackson is on call tonight, though, Abby reminds herself. This honestly hadn't been what she'd had in mind, when she'd asked him, intent on simply resting with Marcus, taking advantage of the current peace and quiet. She's not about to complain at this turn of events though, as Marcus quickly divests her of the tank top, leaving her in nothing but the panties she wore to bed, and his hot, hungry mouth falls to her breasts with an enthusiasm that reminds her of those first heady days together in Polis. 

As it was then, Marcus' passion is intense and focused and entirely devoted to her pleasure; the difference that speaks of their years together is that he knows exactly what he's doing when he rubs the rough of his cheek over sensitive nipples and heated skin, flicks his tongue just so, or trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down, _down_ her body, unerringly seeking out all her secret places he knows will stoke the fire now burning at her core. 

Marcus kisses her hipbone, and this soft, oddly chaste press of his lips against delicate skin has Abby's breath hitching in her throat. And when she looks down and sees him nuzzling gently at her inner thigh, eyes closed, breathing her in, it feels so intimate and reverent that there's a sudden tightness in her chest and tears in her eyes and, oh god, she loves him so very, very much... 

Marcus meets her gaze then, and perhaps it's just the right moment for him to see _everything_ she's feeling spilling over in her expression, because a split second look of almost agony crosses his face then he surges upwards and kisses her with his whole being. Their mouths crash together, and all of Abby's fierce love and need is mirrored and multiplied as Marcus pours himself into the kiss. She clutches at him, chases his taste like she'll never get enough (and she won't, she knows this with a certainty she feels down to her bones.) She soaks in his weight above her, the ripple of powerful muscles beneath the smooth expanse of his back, his soothing touches and panted breaths. 

Everything she thought she'd lost. 

_No_. She won't let the echo of that emptiness ruin this. 

"I'm here," He whispers into her neck, knowing, without having to be told, where her mind has wandered. 

It's almost funny, the thought of how terrible they used to be at communicating with each other, and Abby smiles again, the weight of her emotions lifted and replaced, once more, with desire. 

"You're here," She echoes, and winds a hand back into his hair again, "And I think I interrupted you in the middle of something." 

He lets out a small breath of laughter, lips hovering over her own, "You're far too distracting."

"Mmm," Abby hums and tilts her hips up, rubbing herself against his still-clothed erection; Marcus groans quietly and she tugs on his hair to guide him down again, "Focus." 

"_Work, work, work_..." She hears him mutter teasingly as he shuffles down her body again, leaving errant kisses in his wake, and a laugh starts bubbling out of her before -

"_Oh_..." 

He's nuzzling at her again, and running his tongue firmly over her cunt through the thin cotton of her underwear, tasting her arousal that's already soaked the fabric. Heat is pooling, coiling in Abby's lower belly, but it's not enough; she wants that last barrier gone and Marcus' mouth - _God, his mouth_ \- hot and relentless against her sensitive flesh. So for a moment she attempts to blindly push her panties off, wriggling and trying to reach past her hips, and in her mind she thinks she can remove them somehow without stopping the lovely things Marcus is already doing to her body. But then she hears the deep rumble of his laughter and he takes pity on her, dragging the slip of clothing down her legs himself, freeing and opening her, bare and glistening to his gaze. 

"Always so impatient," He murmurs fondly, but she can hear the roughness in his voice that speaks to his desire, and when Abby opens her eyes she sees him staring at her cunt hungrily, with eyes so dark they're almost black. She shivers and tugs at his hair again,

"Marcus..." 

That's all it takes, his name, spoken by her low and wanting, her nails scratching lightly over his scalp, and Marcus visibly shudders too.

Then he lowers his head and starts to take her apart with exquisite precision. 

The world falls away and Abby's entire consciousness narrows down to Marcus' tongue, parting and sliding deftly through her slick folds; his lips, moving over her in hot, open-mouthed kisses, wrapping around the firm bud of her clit and sucking with the _exact_ amount of pressure he knows will have her hips jolting and high, gasping sighs escaping as molten pleasure pulses through her.

He could make her come hard and fast like this, she's already so close - she's on _fire_ \- and Marcus knows it, damn him, so he changes tack. He pulls back just long enough for the waves of her approaching orgasm to recede, ignoring her whine of protest and what must be a painful grip on his hair at this point, then licks down to her entrance instead, hiking her legs up over his shoulders and fucking her leisurely with his tongue. 

It steals the breath from Abby's lungs, the feeling of his tongue curling inside her and the brush of his beard a whole different sensation against her clit. She attempts to thrust, to chase, to get _more, please, harder_, but strong, capable hands span her hips, keeping her in place and spread beneath him. 

He builds her up again, stroke by stroke, until she's teetering on the edge, every muscle pulled taught and quivering, and the pleasure is like a white hot inferno, desperate to break free. His name is a mantra on her lips:

"Marcus... Marcus,_ please!_" 

He kisses his way messily back to her clit, laves it with his tongue and sucks _hard_ and Abby shatters beneath him, crying out with the strength of her orgasm ripping through her. Her body is singing, waves and waves of pleasure cascading over and over again and Marcus does not stop; his lips and tongue continue relentlessly, suckling and flicking at her oversensitive clit until he wrings a second orgasm out of her and Abby is lost to the onslaught of sensation. It's blinding and overwhelming and almost too much, and through the white noise and breathless sobs of his name, she can hear Marcus moaning, muffled where his face is still buried between her legs, as her hands comb restlessly through his hair. She holds on to the thick mess like he's an anchor, the only thing keeping her from floating away from her body completely. Abby feels as though she's melting as she comes down, blissful and content, nerve endings firing little aftershocks that have her tingling all over. She sinks into the bed and feels more than sees Marcus crawl his way back up to hover over her. She doesn't have to open her eyes to know he's desperate: his cock is rock hard and heavy, slipping through her dripping wet folds, his breath coming in short hot pants against her skin. 

Abby blinks sleepily and gazes up at the vision of Marcus Kane, debauched and desperately aroused, clinging to the last shred of his self control. His hair is a wild mess, teased and tangled by her wandering hands, skin flushed and pupils blown huge and black, intense and focused solely on her. Always her. His mouth and beard are shining wet with her, and Abby leans up to taste herself, kissing him, hot and messy. 

"Please..." He says hoarsely against her lips, "Abby, can I..? _Please_..." 

He never simply takes; no matter how many times they have done this, or how much she might tell him she loves the feeling of him inside her, how she'll never get enough of it... Marcus always asks as though he's still unsure he's welcome, and it's endearing as much as it breaks Abby's heart a little. 

"_Yes_," She breathes, "Honey, yes, I need you, _now_." 

With a sob of relief, he slides home, and Abby feels complete. She winds her arms and legs around him tight with the promise that she will never let go.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Angela Kang said Caryl rights and used the word "saudade" in her own shooting script, and since it's one of my favourite words ever plus one of my fave ships, I promptly lost my shit. Rant over. Thank you for reading.


End file.
